


bruises and plaid scarves to cover them

by WreakingHavok



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Asphyxiation, Bonding, Ethan loves his friends, Gen, Hanging, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, and hurt, benji has been severely traumatized, discussion of when Benji almost DIED, ethan is tired, talking it out like REAL MEN
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-24
Updated: 2019-05-24
Packaged: 2020-03-13 11:56:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,623
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18940441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WreakingHavok/pseuds/WreakingHavok
Summary: Whatever miraculous adrenaline rush he’d had back on the mountain is gone, leaving him empty and drained, feeling so weak he doesn’t even know if he could open his eyes. He’d love nothing more than to fall right back into the sweet, numb, arms of unconsciousness, but he’s an IMF agent.He can’t afford to do that.Or,Ethan Hunt wakes up after the mountain. To his surprise, everyone’s alive.TW: Bruises, asphyxiation, hanging, mention of bombs





	bruises and plaid scarves to cover them

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been writing this since July 27, 2018. I have been writing this for 10. Months. So if you notice maybe four changes in the writing style, that’s why, folks!!!!!!! I almost gave up on this but I refused to let it go. Hope you enjoy it.

Ethan Hunt wakes up feeling like his body is on fire.

If it doesn’t burn, it stings. If it doesn’t sting, it feels like someone’s bashed in his bones with a hammer. It hurts to breathe, each rise and fall of his chest setting his ribs and lungs ablaze. He shoves the urge to cough down his dry throat.

Whatever miraculous adrenaline rush he’d had back on the mountain is gone, leaving him empty and drained, feeling so weak he doesn’t even know if he could open his eyes. He’d love nothing more than to fall right back into the sweet, numb, arms of unconsciousness, but he’s an IMF agent. 

He can’t afford to do that.

Pulling himself together, he starts taking in the area around him. There’s the smell of ammonia floating through the otherwise fresh mountain air, and his mouth is numb. He feels soft fabric surrounding him, and what feels like a hospital gown pulled over his body. It’s cold, but not too cold due to the blankets covering his lower half, and there’s a sting in his arm that he assumes is an IV - the prick barely noticeable in the hellscape that is the current state of his nervous system.

He hears people speaking softly - several he can’t hear or doesn’t recognize wandering around, and three of them a few feet away from him. Their voices are familiar - and he heaves a sigh of relief. Ilsa, Benji, and Luther. They’re alive, meaning the small medical camp and the water reserve remain radiation and bomb free. 

His blinks his eyes open, forcing them to adjust the the natural light filtering in through the semi-transparent walls of the tent he’s surrounded by. It’s a slow process. Lisa notices as he blinks the spots out of his vision.

She grabs his right arm lightly, and he startles, fighting the urge to flinch and retaliate. His other arm jerks up reflexively anyway, and he mentally berates it for its betrayal. There are no restraints, he notes, just as he notes where her hand is and exactly how many ways he could break it.

His vision clears, and she comes into view, her hair tangled, wearing clothes that she must have borrowed from the medical camp. There’s faded bruises on her face and around her throat, and as she opens her mouth, he reaches up, running his fingers lightly over her neck. Her mouth shuts with a click, and she stares at him, waiting for him to make the next move.

Ethan doesn’t trust his voice to work, but he tries anyway, managing to tear a croak that sounds like death itself from his ragged vocal chords. 

“How long?” He says, never taking his eyes off Ilsa’s injuries.

“Four days,” she whispers back. Then she shakes her head slightly, clearing her throat, trying for some semblance of professionalism. “You were out for four days. It’s currently a little bit after noon, and we’re still in the medical camp. We managed to disarm the bomb, which I’m sure you’ve already figured out.”

Ethan nods at her, and taps her throat lightly, watching her tense. “Hurt you?” 

She swallows visibly. “Lane’s in custody.”

That’s all she needs to say, really. Ethan feels his gut twist painfully at the mention of Solomon Lane, and there’s no limit to how much he hates that man. The thought of his hands on Ilsa, choking the life out of her, makes him hurt more than the broken ribs ever could. He’s sure she’s hurting more than she’s going to let him see, and he’s sure there are many more injuries under the carefully chosen coat she has obscuring most of her body. 

Ethan takes a deep and painful breath and tears his gaze from her neck to her eyes. She stares back, and there’s so much spoken there that it makes his throat lock up and tears threaten to start forming.

Ethan would have been satisfied with just staring into her eyes for the rest of the day, but then he remembers that she’s not the only one in the room.

Ilsa smiles as he turns his head, sliding his hand to rest on top of hers, and looks at Luther.

Luther looks no different than Ethan last saw him - except maybe his eyes are sadder and wiser, and maybe there’s some cuts on his hands that hadn’t been there before. But he’s smiling, and his eyes are glowing with the success of a mission accomplished and the knowledge that they all could’ve died but they didn’t. 

Ethan wishes he could remember when his eyes had still glowed like that. 

He grins as best as he can at Luther anyway, raising his left hand in a sloppy salute.

Ethan’s aware that his smile is slicing across his face uncontrollably and that maybe it looks a little bit scary, but he can’t help it.

He almost died. It’s not the first time, certainly not, but it’s just now hitting him that there was a higher probability of people gathering around his casket than around his hospital bed, and he’s smiling so wide his jaw hurts and he can’t figure out how to stop. 

Ilsa squeezes his hand tighter, and he exhales a deep breath, hoping he’s not shaking as much as he feels like he is.

“How you feeling, Ethan?” Luther rumbles, safe and warm and friendly, and Ethan wants to cry - he could’ve lost him. He could’ve lost them all.

“Good,” he says, despite the growing lump in his throat. “Hurts, but that’s usual.” His voice is barely any louder despite his efforts. Ilsa squeezes his hand again, and she’s real and there and he can feel her bones and her skin under his own and she’s warm and most importantly, alive.

He was there, on a mountaintop, miles away from his friends, and if that bomb went off there’s a chance he could’ve survived and a chance he would’ve had to live without ever seeing the names Stickell, Dunn, or Faust on his agent list again.

“You sure know how to scare a man,” Luther says, joking but meaning it anyway. “Don’t ever pull a stunt like that again, you hear?” 

Ethan nods as best as he can. “Yes, sir,” he rasps. Luther laughs, a touch more manic than he probably meant it to be. Ethan looks at him and takes in every wrinkle and crease in his face and sees the way his eyes are screaming I’m so glad you’re alive.

“We disarmed the bomb,” Luther says unnecessarily, more to remind himself that they did it than fill Ethan in on new information. 

“How close were we?” Ethan asks, and Luther swallows.

“Same as always,” Benji says from behind Ilsa. His voice is scratchy and it’s the first time he’s spoken since Ethan woke up. Ethan tries to turn his head to look at him, but Ilsa’s standing in his way and it hurts to move his neck.

Luther’s about to talk when his phone beeps, and after a quick glance at it he raises his eyebrows and sighs. “I’ve gotta head out. Just for a little,” he reassures at Ethan’s questioning look. “Ilsa, you should too.” 

Ilsa sighs. “We still have some paperwork. We’ve been. . .” She trails off, looking back at Luther. “Procrastinating,” she finishes, and by procrastinating she means waiting and praying nervously that Ethan wakes up and he knows it.

Ilsa lets go of his hand and stands. She looks at him, long and hard, and there’s a silent plea to still be there the next time she walks back into the room.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Ethan whispers, and Ilsa sucks in a breath, turning away with a shaky smile on her face.

As Luther stands, Ilsa makes eye contact with him, and they look to the right with a synchronized worried glance. Before Ethan can question it, they’ve walked out the door.

Benji sits in the last chair that Ilsa had obscured from his view.

It’s Benji, Ethan thinks happily - Benji - and he looks terrible.

He’s paler than usual, the dark circles under his bloodshot eyes doubled in size, and Ethan can see that he’s had the same treatment Ilsa has - his left cheek is mottled with bruises and there’s tiny cuts all over his hands and a bandage wrapped around his wrist.

He’s slouched down in his chair like he wants to hide, a scarf tied loosely around his neck and his hat pulled down over his ears. He’s looking at the floor, biting at his nails.

“What’re you hiding from?” Ethan rasps, and Benji starts, scrambling upright, eyes snapping to meet his.

“What?” he stutters. “No, no, I’m, uh - I’m -“ Benji tugs the scarf away from his neck before seemingly rethinking and pulling it tighter. He swallows hard. “How are you feeling?”

Ethan huffs a laugh that makes his ribs twinge painfully. “Serious question?” He manages, smiling warmly at Benji.

Whatever he’s worried about obviously can’t be helped by a smile, as Benji looks away and won’t meet his eyes again.

“Yeah, no,” Benji scoffs. “Sorry.” Again, he tugs at the scarf uncomfortably, this time leaving his hand in between his skin and the fabric.

Ethan frowns suspiciously. Looking to his right he sees a glass of water and a pitcher on a table in front of his IV bag.

“How you doing?” Ethan asks in retaliation, pushing himself up a little higher and wincing.

“Stop that,” Benji huffs. “You’re gonna hurt yourself.” 

Ethan hums noncommittally, carefully picking his hand up to run it through his hair, wincing as his fingers catch in the ragged mess. He’s sure it looks terrible. “Avoiding the question.”

“Am not, I’m just worried about you,” he says, something bitter in his voice pitching it higher than usual. “I have been for the past few days.”

Ethan looks closer as the scarf is pushed away from Benji’s neck yet again and he can see that the man’s hands are trembling, uncharacteristically ungraceful. He sees a glimpse of the skin through Benji’s fingers before the scarf is pulled hastily back into place, but it’s enough.

Determined now, Ethan reaches over the side of the bed and grabs the glass of water, bringing it over to hover above his lap. As he lifts it to his lips, he lets it fall from his hand, spilling the entire thing over his torso and lap, the cup hitting his ribs hard enough to make him yelp in pain. 

Benji curses, jumping up, instinctively grabbing the glass and yanking his scarf off, setting the glass down and dabbing at the water pooling in the sheet with the plaid fabric. “You bloody - stop moving, you’re gonna -“

Ethan reaches up and grabs the Brit’s shoulder. Benji freezes, looking at Ethan’s eyes which are fixed on his now exposed neck.

There’s a thick line of dark purple bruises all around his throat. Even though Ethan only has a few seconds to gape before Benji hastily throws his scarf back on, it’s enough for him to memorize the damage.

Benji quietly curses him out without any malice, shaking hands holding his scarf to his neck.

Ethan’s quiet while Benji pulls himself together, the water chilling his skin as the cold wind breezes through the tent. 

Benji looks like he wants to bolt, but he doesn’t, and with a worried look at Ethan, pulls the folded up comforter at the base of the bed up and over his legs. Ethan mutters a thanks, and Benji shrugs and sits down, curled in on himself.

“What happened?” Ethan asks quietly, already putting the pieces together.

Ethan reaches up and touches Ilsa’s bruises, and Benji looks away. Lane’s in custody, Ilsa says, and behind her, Benji flinches.

“You can read the mission report later,” Benji tries, and Ethan shakes his head. 

“Wanna hear it from you,” he says.

“Had a fight with Lane,” Benji says after a moment of silence. “We has to take him out to get to the bomb. Almost didn’t.” His voice is quiet near the end.

“Details?” Ethan prompts. He can see that it’s a memory Benji doesn’t want to relive, but there’s a second layer of something else buried beneath it that goes beyond the usual trauma. 

For weeks after the nuclear codes incident in India Benji was waking up every night in a panic, and it took seven short phone calls at three in the morning for a week straight for Ethan to figure out what exactly was wrong. 

He’s not letting this stew for that long.

“We fought, Ilsa knocked him out,” Benji says. “What, you want a play by play?” His following laugh is weak.

“Sure.”

Benji sighs with exasperation. “I’d rather not, Ethan. Not now.”

“Then when?” Ethan asks. 

“I’ve already hashed it out to the paperwork grunts, you’re really going to make me -“ 

“Don’t wanna hear it from them.”

Benji huffs, and Ethan watches his leg start shaking up and down, a tell that he’s getting worked up. Ethan frowns, not wanting to push too hard. 

“Something happened with Lane,” he says. Start at the beginning.

Benji’s expression is somewhere between pained and exasperated. “That’s very obvious.”

Ethan barrels on. “Yeah. You fought, to get to the bomb. You eventually defeated him. But what happened in the middle, there?”

Benji won’t look at him. “I don’t want to tell you,” he whispers. “I really don’t.”

“I’m worried,” Ethan says after a beat of silence. “Benji, I’m worried.”

There’s a long stretch of nothing but the sounds of gravel crunching beneath the feet of people outside, of the wind blowing through the tent, of the beeping of machines keeping Ethan’s veins loaded with painkiller.

“He hung me,” Benji finally says. “Tied a rope around my neck and hung me from the ceiling.”

Ethan’s heart skips a beat. “Oh,” he says. 

“Ilsa barely saved me,” Benji continues. “I was passed out by the time she finally cut the rope, and it was so awful, Ethan, I couldn’t breathe -“ he stops, inhaling shakily, hands reaching up to his throat. “I thought I was dead,” he finishes. 

Ethan doesn’t know what to say. So he doesn’t say anything.

Benji doesn’t say anything, either, and there they are - stuck in the silence pressing down on all sides.

Ethan looks at his friend. Benji does not look back.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Ethan mutters, finally. “We couldn’t have done this without you.”

Benji swallows hard. He opens his mouth. Closes it. He nods, short and jerky, and then he’s wiping furiously at his eyes with his scarf.

“Blasted cold,” he sniffs, coughing a little. “My body can’t handle it.”

Ethan smiles and stares out the tent flap. “Yeah.”

“You need a blanket? Another one?” Benji’s voice isn’t quite back to normal, but it’s an improvement.

Ethan can feel his muscles tensed, can hear every noise, see every movement out of the corner of his eyes.

He shouldn’t be here, lying on this hospital bed. This whole mountain shouldn’t be here. Benji shouldn’t be here.

But they are. 

“I’ll take another one, yeah,” Ethan tells Benji. They lock eyes. Benji smiles, and the haunted gaze slowly leeches out of the corners of his eyes.

Ethan watches him stick his head out the tent window, yelling for someone to find him a blanket.

Slowly, ever so slowly, he closes his eyes. He lets his muscles relax. Lets the world narrow down to the warmth of the blankets around him and Benji muttering to himself at his bedside.

Neither of them should be here. Ethan will be reminded of that every time Benji’s collar slips, every time a bomb goes off.

But they are.

And Ethan isn’t complaining.


End file.
